


The Manhattan Home for Boys

by amscray_punk



Series: Sweet Prince [3]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Family Fluff, Found Family, Holidays, M/M, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but this is spot's pov so they're background, it's a lot of sprace, most of the newsies make some sort of appearance, shocker I know, the fluffiest of holiday fluff, this is very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28057467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk
Summary: The renovations have been completed, it's the holidays, and the orphanage formerly known as the Refuge is under new management. Spot and Racer have planned a small day of celebration for the kids, but it seems that Race may have more up his sleeve than he let on. Surprise, surprise.*Rating this G because it's so soft and fluffy, but there are definitely a few curse words in here, so, yeah.**Takes place in winter of the same year as The One We'll Create.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins, and newsbians - Relationship, and redfinch sort of, background javid - Relationship
Series: Sweet Prince [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917310
Comments: 18
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I said I was done with this AU? Turns out I'm a liar. But I just couldn't help wondering what the first holidays in the orphanage would be like after Spot's reforms, so here we are. This takes place in winter of the same year as The One We'll Create, and this particular day is referenced in Something to Believe In (there's a bit about the first boy to be adopted since Spot took over). Anyway, there's snow on the ground, it's the holidays, which are (mostly) nondenominational because I make the rules here 🙃
> 
> Oh, and the "little cakes" are just cookies. Cookie wasn't a word yet, so, little cakes they are. Enjoy and please let me know if you do! 🥰🥰 happy holidays, Newsies fandom!

Spot didn't know how long he stood there.

Leaning a shoulder against the doorway of one of the boys' rooms, taking in the scene that felt simultaneously familiar and so incredibly foreign. It was still hard to believe he'd once slept in these very rooms; three or more to a bed, fighting over a singular threadbare blanket–if only they'd known they'd be warmer if they simply shared. Sharing wasn't a prevalent concept in the Refuge, no, they had to fight for everything, every scrap of food or cloth, every mismatched pair of shoes that might protect their aching feet for a few weeks, if they were lucky. 

Now, though, he looked at a room that held six beds, and every night that room held six boys–one, and only one, in each bed. One pillow, two blankets per boy; two dressers to share between the six of them. It was funny, he thought, what you could tell about each of the boys by the state of their beds. Most were clearly slept in, blankets rumpled, hems dragging along the wooden floor; with a fond roll of his eyes, Spot crossed the room to pick up Vince’s pillow from underneath the bed, not sure he wanted to know how it had gotten there. Spot had decided, early on, not to force arbitrary chores on the boys. Sure, they cleaned their rooms, helped set the table for meals, cleaned up after, and managed their own hygiene–as much as could be reasonably expected, depending on their age. But he wanted them to think of their beds as theirs, their pillows and blankets and clothes as their own, and how they chose to leave their beds was their decision to make, too. He wanted them to feel like this was their home, not some sort of juvenile prison where they had to fall in line or suffer the consequences. 

So some of the boys made their beds, and some of them didn’t. And Spot genuinely couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering to the one bed he knew would be neatly made, prim and proper as always; pillow perfectly centered, blankets tucked tightly into the corners, a couple of books stowed away just underneath the wooden frame. He couldn’t help the quirk of his lips at the thought of the boy–Jojo, he went by Jojo, which was just so very, uniquely… him. He couldn’t help the pang that went through his chest as he looked, knowing what Jojo must have gone through to make him this way; never a toe out of line, always the first one to jump up to help, whether it was Spot or one of the other adults who asked. But Spot especially noticed how often Jojo helped the younger kids, watched out for them and guided them. He supposed Jojo had probably always been like that. It had been over fifteen years since he, himself, had been one of those unlucky Refuge boys, but there had always been caretakers among them. Finch had been one of them, too. 

But soon–too soon–that bed would be occupied by another boy, eager to move up in rank to the oldest boys’ room, and Spot knew it was a good thing. He _knew_ Jojo deserved a home, a real home, with parents and siblings and the warmth that came with having a family who wanted you; a warmth he knew most of these boys would never be lucky enough to know. Finch had been surprised, that morning, when they’d gotten the news. Surprised that their first adoption wasn’t one of the young boys, the ones who were still so new to walking and talking that they hadn’t quite mastered it, yet. Finch knew, of course, what it was like to watch the littles get adopted while the rest of them stayed, and stayed. 

But even though Jojo was fifteen years old, nearly a man in his own right, Spot wasn’t surprised. Of _course_ he was the first one to go. Of course Jojo, sunshine personified, with his quick smile given out at the drop of a hat, his big emotions that he didn’t shy away from showing; the genuine love he so readily gave his fellow orphans. They would miss him–oh, they would miss Jojo dearly, and it was still a struggle for Spot to remind himself that this was the goal. This was why he'd wanted this job, wasn’t it? To help them? Still, there he stood, rooted to the spot as he imagined the next one to leave, and the next, and–

“Who wants to help decorate?!”

Spot’s head whipped around with a start at the sudden, loud intrusion to his thoughts, and the smile that graced his lips came almost instinctively. It was Racer, of course; Racer, who seemed to have a sort of sixth sense for knowing just when Spot needed him. He’d known Race was coming, knew he had some gifts for the boys. They’d planned a little holiday party, of sorts, for the kids… well, and the adults. But from the raucous sounds drifting up the stairs from the main room, it sounded like the party Racer had in mind was a touch bigger than they’d agreed upon. With an affectionate roll of his eyes–because of _course_ Race would go all out given the opportunity–Spot backed out of the room, lingering in the doorway for just one more moment before he headed downstairs.

He didn’t make it halfway down before he stopped in his tracks, stunned by the sight. Racer, Jack, Davey, and Les had turned up, absolutely laden with bags stuffed full to bursting with God only knows what. The kids were filtering in, cautious, curious looks on the older ones’ faces; the littles rushed in without hesitation, Albert and Finch hot on their heels. Racer was flitting about, taking bags from his mules and spreading them throughout the common room; Spot bit back a snicker as he noticed Davey rub at a sore shoulder. He watched as Race headed to one of the long, family-style dining tables, dropped a heavy bag onto the surface and began pulling out what looked to be lengths of ivy, of some sort. Jack joined him a moment later, digging out spools of yarn and smaller bags stuffed with–well, Spot couldn’t tell from his vantage point, and he realized suddenly that he was still standing on the stairs. 

The stairs creaked as he descended, finally drawing Racer’s attention and his face lit up when he saw him, his smile dazzling and infectious as ever.

“Spotty!” He greeted him, waving him over as he reached for one of the smaller bags. Wooden beads, Spot could see as he approached the table, filled the bag in Jack's hands; the kids had gathered around almost instinctively, drawn to Race and Jack’s childlike energies, looking up at them with big, curious eyes. “Come, see what we’ve got.”

Spot obliged, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Racer pass out the ivy–

“Holly,” Davey corrected, appearing suddenly at Spot’s shoulder and frowning lightly at the scene. “Hang on, Racer, did you take out the berries first?”

“What?” Race asked, distracted as he used his dagger to cut lengths of yarn and pass them out to the kids seated around the table. “No. Why would I do that?”

“They’re–shit, Racer,” The almost weary edge of Davey’s voice changed quickly to panic. “Because holly berries are poisonous!” 

Spot choked back a panicked sound of his own as he looked quickly to Albert and Finch, who shared a look with each other before nodding to Spot, communicating wordlessly before they split off to chase after the littles. He let out a quietly relieved breath, glancing at Race, who gave him a sheepishly apologetic look that warmed his chest; damn him, Spot thought, wondering if the day would ever come where he’d be able to stay mad at him for longer than a moment. But he watched as Racer quickly turned his attention back to the task at hand, and he knew that there was no need for forgiveness. He knew that Race loved these kids as much as he did, and was only trying to make the holidays special for them, for the first time in their lives. 

Jack and Davey had settled around the table, helping the kids tie knots in the yarn to make wreaths; Les had run off with Boots, one of the older boys he’d made friends with in recent months. Spot hung back and watched as the kids made their decorations and took off through the building, and it wasn’t long before the stair railing was wrapped in berry-less holly and strings of beads, loose beads kicked across the floor and just begging for an adult to slip on them. It was absolute chaos, and Spot couldn’t stop smiling.

Eventually, Race managed to pull himself away long enough to join Spot by the end of the table. He pecked him on the cheek happily, grin a mile wide.

“Whaddaya think?” Racer asked, gesturing over his shoulder at the newly-decorated room. It wasn’t the most… traditional, but Spot had to admit the decorations gave the renovated space a cozy, homey feel that was wholly new to the orphanage. Spot shrugged, reaching out to wrap an arm around Race’s waist and pull him close.

“I think next year, you should pick out the holly berries, first.”

“Ha, ha,” Race rolled his eyes, the barest flush touching his cheekbones. _Damn, he's cute_. And he knew it, too; it showed in the way Race looked back at him, bright blue eyes positively sparkling with excitement. “Leave me alone, I've been busy. We’ve already been by Kloppman’s _and_ Bowery Street today. Just you wait, we’re only gettin’ started.”

“Pardon?” Spot’s eyebrows raised in surprise as he looked to the bags that sat against the wall, still stuffed full. He caught a mischievous glint in Racer’s eyes now, as he looked back, but before he could ask further, Race leaned in and kissed him sweetly, quickly, on the lips before he pulled away and out of Spot’s grasp. “Racer–”

“You’ll see,” He answered with a wink, backing away and picking up two of the bags, heading for the stairs. “Can you go see if Specs and Romeo are ready?”

“Ready for what?” Spot felt more confused than ever, and he was still reeling from the fact that Racer had found time already to stop by not only the girls’ orphanage but Kloppman’s, too. Just what else did this human whirlwind have planned?

Race waved a dismissive hand at him from the top of the stairs. “They’ll know. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in five minutes.” With that, he disappeared from view, and Spot had nothing left to do except head to the kitchen.

The scent that greeted him when he entered was entirely foreign to him, but it was absolutely heavenly; sweet, a little spicy, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the comforting heat of the hearth. The workspace was covered in a light dusting of flour–and rows and rows of what looked to be flat little cakes. They varied slightly in size but greatly in shape, some circles, some triangles, and even some little squares. Specs was busy layering them carefully into woven baskets while Romeo was bent over the workspace, filling a number of small wooden bowls with various nuts and dried fruit. Specs glanced up when the door closed behind Spot, flashing him a grin.

“What do you think?” He asked, gesturing to their handiwork. Romeo looked up, the hopeful look on his flour-streaked face wiped quickly away when he missed the bowl and dumped a pile of almonds onto the workspace. He cursed, quickly scooping them into the bowl with his hands while Specs chuckled at him. 

“Wh–what do I think of what?” Spot felt like he couldn’t quite catch up; was he the only one who didn’t know the full extent of their holiday plans? He made his way over to the workspace and picked up one of the little cakes; brown, still slightly warm, and not quite as fluffy as a typical cake. They smelled… well, he didn't think he had the words to describe it. Spot was quite sure he’d never smelled anything like it before. “What is this?” He asked, gesturing to the workspace.

“Gingerbread,” Specs answered proudly, nodding at Spot as though giving him permission. “Go ahead, try it.” 

Spot quirked an eyebrow but obliged, taking a cautious nibble–and barely resisting the urge to shove the rest of the little cake into his mouth. It was sweet, but not overly so, and infused with spices that filled him with a sense of… well, he wasn’t quite sure what to call the feeling in his chest, but warm would cover it, for now. He made a sound of approval as he chewed, tipping an imaginary hat to the cooks; Specs grinned as he finished loading the cakes into the basket, and Romeo swept into a grandiose bow that nearly knocked over another bowl of toppings. 

“They’re for the kids,” Specs went on to explain, answering Spot’s yet unasked question as he brushed the flour from the workspace. “Since they’re still a little warm, you can shove nuts or dried fruit into them, and sort of decorate them.” His confusion must have shown on his face, because Specs’s expression softened just slightly. “It was Racer’s idea. They’ve done this at the castle for… well, as long as any of us can remember. Forever, I suppose.”

Ah. Of course. Spot felt that instinctual smile beginning to tug at his lips again and he nodded, finishing off the little cake. The decorations, the bags of gifts–because he could only assume that Racer had brought more than just the winter cloaks and shoes they’d agreed upon–the little cakes and toppings for them; all holiday traditions he must have grown up with in the castle. 

There was a small part of Spot that could have been jealous. Jealous that he–and all the other kids who had grown up in the orphanages, half on the streets–had missed out on an entire childhood’s worth of these traditions, these memories, while the king’s children enjoyed years of celebration to excess; toys and sweets and decorations around a roaring fire. But he found that his chest only warmed with affection as he imagined a little Racer and Katherine, eager to share their good fortunes with their friends–and he was sure they had done just that. And now they were continuing to share with a new generation of underprivileged kids; a generation that would look up to their leader with respect and admiration, and hopefully, look back upon their childhood with some amount of fondness. Spot was trying, anyway, and he knew he couldn’t thank Racer enough for his part in that.

Spot was startled from his thoughts by the object of his affection bursting through the door, bringing that infectious energy along with him, brightening the room with his mere presence. 

“Spotty,” He greeted him cheerfully, pecking Spot’s cheek as he folded himself into his side, prompting Spot’s arm to move around his shoulders and hold him close. “Are we ready? We’ve got the tables cleaned and the kids are sitting down.”

“They’re–sorry, sitting down?” Spot repeated incredulously. “...At the same time?” 

Race only winked in response, untangling from his grasp to help Specs and Romeo carry the bowls and baskets to the tables. Spot followed in a bit of a daze, unable to help the way his jaw nearly dropped when he realized that all of the boys were, in fact, seated, albeit restlessly, around the tables. He could only watch as Racer and his friends took over, spacing the bowls evenly down the middle of the tables and passing out the little cakes to every boy; Finch and Albert were sitting with the littles, as always, making sure to keep the nuts well out of reach. It was quieter than Spot would have expected, but the kids seemed to be putting in quite an effort to create works of edible art–emphasis on the edible. He had just pushed away from the wall to stop Vince from eating a _fourth_ cake when he felt a hand slip into his. Racer, of course, tugging him back and wrapping himself up with his arm again.

“Leave them be,” He said, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Spot’s jaw and quickly continuing when Spot opened his mouth to argue. “They’re good kids, Sean. They’ve never gotten to do this before. Let them fill up on sugar. They deserve it.” And, really, how could he argue with that? So he didn’t, merely pulled Race close and kissed his temple.

“Thank you,” He murmured into his hair. Race hummed happily in response, curling into him as they watched the kids get messier and rowdier, the more cakes they decorated and promptly devoured. A sudden thought struck him and he turned so he could see Race’s face. “What all did you bring?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Race gave a little shake of his head, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “The cloaks and shoes we talked about, mittens, ah,” He paused, actually looking as though he were having trouble remembering. “Some sheets of parchment and charcoal for drawing, a couple of drums, some flutes, a lute or two–”

“Racer!”

“Spotty!” Race countered, eyebrows raised in question. When Spot couldn’t form words, he continued. “Some whistles, tops, oh, Charlie carved a truly _ridiculous_ number of little horses and animals and figurines, knights and dolls and whatnot.” Race trailed off, chuckling fondly as Spot was still lost for words. “The twins helped us figure out who would want what.” He added, as though _that_ were the part Spot was hung up on. 

His mind reeled as he mentally tallied the gifts. Heavy winter cloaks, shoes and mittens for all of the boys–and, he realized suddenly, probably the girls and Kloppman’s boys, too–would have cost a fortune. Let alone the musical instruments, the art supplies… He couldn’t fathom the time and money Racer had spent, and that was without considering the feast that Spot knew they were hosting at the castle, later that night. 

“Racer, this is–” His words came in hushed tones, and when Race turned to look at him, Spot could have sworn he was holding back laughter. Still, he couldn’t keep the wonder and slight trace of panic out of his voice. “This is… so expensive–”

“Spot,” Race interrupted, halfway through rolling his eyes before he caught himself and grinned instead. “My sister is the queen. The _queen_. Money is, and never has been, a concern of mine. And–”

“But–”

“ _And_ ,” Race talked over him, giving a gentle squeeze of his waist where his arm was wrapped around him. “No matter how much money I spent, I can promise you, it wasn’t enough. Relax. They deserve it.” 

It was that word–deserve–that got to him, as it had when Race had said it earlier, and any trace of guilt he’d felt dissolved instantly. Race was right, of course. They _did_ deserve this, the cakes and the flutes and the toys and so much more. He wondered, not for the first time, how Racer and Katherine had turned out so _good_ , so pure and giving, when their father… 

The front door swung open suddenly, and Race detached himself from Spot’s side to greet the newcomers.

“Ah, the Bowery Beauties!” Race called as he approached, pulling a pretty young woman with vibrant red hair into a hug. Spot only knew her first name, Hannah, and that she helped to run the girls’ orphanage on Bowery Street. She rolled her eyes goodnaturedly as she patted Racer’s back.

“Save it, golden boy,” She teased, pulling back and poking a finger in Race’s chest. “Your charms don’t work on us, anymore.” Racer clutched his chest as if wounded, turning his attention to the brunette behind Hannah–who Spot realized, suddenly, was none other than the queen’s wife. He’d forgotten that Sarah had left her post in the castle to help run the girls’ orphanage; the nuns who ran it before weren’t _quite_ as cruel as Snyder, but Spot was sure the atmosphere was far more pleasant and comfortable, now. 

“What’s all this?” Spot asked as he approached, pleasantly surprised that Sarah greeted him with a hug. Race reached for his hand again, giving a squeeze in his excitement. 

“We thought the boys might need to burn off some energy after decorating,” Race explained, nodding at Hannah and Sarah, who were bundled up against the cold. “So we invited the girls over so they could play in the snow.”

As if on cue, footsteps echoed through the room as the twins came thundering down the stairs.

“Round up, boys!” Mike called, cupping his hands around his mouth to carry his voice. “You’ll find new cloaks, mittens, and shoes on your beds!”

“Suit up and report outside for war!” Ike added, pulling his brother by the back of his shirt out of the way as the boys streamed up the stairs, shouting and laughing as they went.

Race finished a quiet conversation with the Bowery ladies, who nodded in understanding and stepped back outside. In no time at all, the boys were tearing down the stairs, wrapped in identical woolen cloaks and mittens, stiff new shoes thudding against the wooden floor as they flew out the front door in a steady stream. Spot swallowed against the sudden well of emotion he felt, seeing all of his boys–he couldn’t pinpoint the moment he’d begun to think of them as _his_ , but he did–dressed in new, warm winter clothes, free of the holes and patches that adorned the rest of their wardrobe. He made a mental note on his neverending to-do list to start replacing those worn-out clothes, too. 

Before they knew it, Spot and Race were the only ones left in the room; even Finch and Albert had trailed outside after helping the little ones dress in their new winter wear. Race squeezed his hand again, and his eyes were soft when Spot turned to look at him. 

“You okay?” He asked, his voice as soft as his expression and Spot couldn’t help but lean in to kiss him sweetly. He felt Racer’s smile against his lips and he pulled back just far enough to see it.

“Never better,” He murmured, shaking his head a little in wonderment. “Thanks to you.” Race giggled quietly, which was more adorable than anyone had a right to be, and reached for his cloak that was hung on a hook by the door.

“Come on, you won’t wanna miss this.” Race grabbed his hand again, hardly waiting for Spot to fasten his own cloak over his shoulders before he dragged him out the front door.

The wind was a frigid slap to the face after the sweetly-scented warmth of the orphanage, and they both wrapped their cloaks more tightly around them as they made their way around the building to the patch of snow-covered grass that stretched to the edge of the wall on the west end of town. The chaos that had previously been contained inside seemed to have doubled with the relocation: most of the kids from both orphanages had been herded into two groups, each gathered around one of the twins, who were giving instructions in hushed tones. The younger kids had grouped together off to the side nearest the town wall and, supervised by Albert, Finch, and Hannah, were gleefully building snowmen and making snow angels; Jack stood with Davey and Sarah until Mike waved at him to oversee the ‘war.’ He shuffled over, drawing a line in the snow with his feet before reminding the kids–with a characteristically cheeky grin–about the importance of playing fair.

The scene in the yard was truly something special to behold. Spot had never seen so many joyous smiles, heard so many shrieks of laughter from a group of orphans before–let alone in the dead of winter. But they took to the games like fish to water, and he almost couldn’t decide where to look. The little ones were positively charming, building their clumsy snowmen, squealing with delight as they showed off their snow angels. A few of the quieter kids, including Jojo, had gathered in a small circle near the littles and were in deep, lively conversation with Davey. The snowball fight was raging, boys and girls running themselves ragged as they hurled hastily-crafted snowballs across the line, dodging blows with the effortless grace that came so easily to children. Only the adults seemed to be having trouble escaping the attacks, and Spot couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the sight of Jack Kelly, fearsome knight, backed up against the wall of the orphanage, absolutely bullied by two teenage girls from Bowery Street.

“They’re something, aren’t they?” The sudden voice to Spot’s left startled him just a bit. He turned, grinning, to find Sarah at his side, arms crossed and expression full of pride. She nodded toward the girls, gesturing to them each in turn. “Smalls and Sniper, they’re called,” She let out something like a cackle as one of them beamed Mike in the face with a well-aimed shot. “Oh my God, I love them.”

“Fun names,” Race commented, sparkling blue eyes more striking than usual against his complexion, flushed from the cold. Spot snorted.

“Well, that seems to be a theme around here,” He said dryly, rubbing his gloved hands together. Race grabbed one of his hands and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, tucking himself into Spot’s side and sliding his arms underneath Spot’s cloak to wrap around his torso. Spot hugged him close, turning his head to press a quick kiss to his jaw.

“Ugh,” Sarah made a sound and they both turned to see her scrunching her nose at them. “You two are disgustingly cute.”

“You’re one to talk,” Racer shot back, with the comfortably teasing tone of a sibling. Sarah rolled her eyes but didn’t retort, and Spot was sure her cheeks were slightly more flushed than they had been a moment before.

In truth, they couldn’t stay outside as long as they’d have liked; heavy wool or not, new or not, the kids’ cloaks were soaked through in no time, and none of the adults were willing to risk anyone getting sick. Spot signaled to Mike and Ike from across the yard and they began to round them up, arguing all the way inside over which team had won. The girls lined up behind Hannah and Sarah, teeth chattering through their grins as they waved goodbye, heading to the east end of town. Racer and Jack darted over to help Albert and Finch carry the littles inside, big, fat tears rolling down their rosy cheeks as they reached toward their abandoned snow creations. Spot couldn’t help but smile softly; they were crying, yes, but they were crying over something so simple, so achingly _normal_ as having to come inside before they were ready. His chest warmed at the sight of Racer, little three-year-old Buttons perched on his shoulders as he ran in a zigzag pattern to the door, turning the boy's tired whines to giggles of joy.

“Spot,” Davey appeared suddenly, snapping Spot’s gaze quickly away from Race’s retreating form. He turned to face him, eyebrows raising curiously when he noticed Jojo’s small group–which now included Boots and Les–hanging back behind him. “Do you mind if I take them up to the castle a little early?”

Spot shrugged, shaking his head. They had a little over an hour before the feast was to begin. “I don’t see why not. What for?”

“Well, some of the boys wanted a book as a present, instead of a toy or something, so Racer thought I could take them up to the library and let them pick out a book.”

“To keep?” 

“Oh, of course,” Davey answered quickly, blinking in surprise. “Yes, to keep. Besides,” He added, looking thoughtful. “Once the school is open, they’ll all have unlimited access to the castle library, anyway. But until then–”

“Of course,” Spot answered again, cutting him off only so they could all get out of the cold sooner. “That’s fine. We’ll meet you up at the castle for dinner.”

“Great, thanks,” Davey smiled, patting Spot’s shoulder with a gloved hand before turning to round up the boys and lead them to the castle. Spot watched them go for only a moment before the door swung open and a curly blonde head poked out, eyebrows raised.

“Come on, Spotty,” Race called, and Spot was happy to oblige, jogging the last few steps to the orphanage and stepping gratefully into the warmth. 

He could only imagine what the rest of the day would hold.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry, I've had this written for a while but I got distracted writing 'tis the damn season, so I kinda forgot about it lksdjf anyway happy holidays sorry it's late

Spot still wasn’t entirely sure the feast had actually happened.

It seemed more like a vision than anything else; a dream, perhaps. The Great Hall was more stunning than Spot had ever seen it before, garland strung in tasteful decoration, countless candles lending a warm ambiance to the cold stone interior. The long tables had been absolutely _covered_ in elegant platters of food: a variety of roasted meats, vegetables, and freshly baked breads; and an entire table devoted to desserts, pies and cakes and even a platter piled high with those little brown cakes Specs had made–gingerbread, that was it. 

He’d never forget the pure joy on the face of every orphan–whether they’d come from Bowery Street, Spot’s orphanage or Kloppman’s–as they took in the scene. Spot knew his own expression had been something similar; he’d certainly never seen so much food in all his life. He nearly told Racer it was too much, especially for a bunch of children, until he saw the way the kids were glued to their seats, inhaling everything in sight, and he knew it wouldn’t go to waste. Orphans were good about that.

Even if waste had been a concern, it was wiped away when Katherine insisted they take the leftover food back to the orphanages and the forge. Spot knew he’d always remember the reverent looks on the kids’ faces when they looked up to find themselves dining with the queen herself. And Katherine had been a dream, making a point to spend a few minutes with _every single kid_ , holding their hands and looking into their eyes, treating them like _people_. The memory was almost overwhelming, especially when he remembered how she had promised to make the feast a yearly tradition.

A good number of the kids had flocked to Jack, prodding at him for stories from his valiant knight days; Davey was seen leading a lesson of sorts by the menorah in the window, a group of curious boys and girls crowded around him. Spot could still picture the looks of wonderment on their faces as they listened to him talk, enraptured, and he smiled, imagining Davey leading real lessons, someday, in Racer's school. Mike and Ike had even briefly reprised their roles as court jesters for some after-dinner entertainment (and acrobatics), much to the delight of the kids, deliriously full and happy as they were.

The boys had passed out almost immediately upon arriving back at the orphanage; and some of them hadn’t even waited that long. It had taken a group effort to carry the littles home without waking them, and now they were rewarding themselves with hot, spiced cider and leftover gingerbread in the orphanage kitchen. Spot felt warm as he looked around the kitchen, rosy-cheeked smiles on the faces of his friends–a warmth that he knew had almost nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth. 

No, the warmth came from the sparkling eyes and tipsy chuckles that filled the room, from the way Finch and Albert gravitated toward each other without realizing it; the way Specs sat as still as possible while remaining engaged in conversation, so as not to wake the sleeping Romeo on his shoulder. The way Spot could have his arm slung casually over Racer’s shoulders, their chairs pressed together, Race’s hand openly resting on Spot’s thigh as he curled into him. The way they were all so comfortable there, so free. The way the kids were no longer afraid to be _kids_. They had good days and they had bad days and now they knew, even on their bad days, that someone still cared about them. Still wanted them. Somehow, Spot realized, the orphanage had become a home. 

Home. The word sent an unexpected pang through Spot’s chest, cutting through the warmth that had built up there as they basked in the glow of the fire, sipping their cider. Jojo would be in his new home, soon. Spot fell quiet, almost retreating back into his chair without realizing he’d done it as he looked into the flames, eyes unfocused and distant. He hadn’t prepared for this part of the job, the part where he had to come to terms with losing one of his boys. 

Was it really a loss, though? Certainly for Jojo, it wasn’t; he was gaining a family, two parents and even a little sister; a home, a small cottage on the edge of town, and Spot couldn’t help but smile as he remembered the excitement with which Jojo had told him that the Dentons even had a couple of goats he would get to help tend. A gentle squeeze on Spot’s thigh drew him out of his trance and he turned to see Race watching him, one eyebrow raised in question.

Racer had been by his side all evening, even at the feast when he'd drawn a considerable crowd, himself. The golden boy was still something of an enigma to the orphans in the kingdom; most had grown up idolizing him, and now they were getting a chance to get to know him, the _real_ Racer. The one that Spot knew, the one who had kept him company all day and night–even now with their tipsy friends–because he could tell, somehow, that Spot needed him there. Spot moved his hand to rest on top of Race’s, returning the gentle squeeze with a short nod that answered his unasked question. They stood, stretching their tired limbs, and excused themselves from their friends, making their way up the stairs to Spot’s bedroom on the third floor.

Spot was tired (and admittedly, a little drunk), he could feel that in his bones as they dressed for bed. But his mind was still racing, and he had the sense for at _least_ the third time that day that Racer could read his thoughts clearly, because suddenly Race was in front of him, taking one of his hands and tipping Spot’s chin up with the other.

“Hey,” He said softly, searching Spot’s eyes. “Where are you?”

“I–” Spot tried, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he sighed, shaking his head. “I dunno, Racer. Just… thinkin’.”

“Thinkin’ about what?” Race tightened his grip on Spot’s hand, leading him over to the bed, where they both sat. Spot leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He let out a soft little sigh when he felt Racer’s hand smoothing over his back and shoulders. “Jojo?” Spot nodded, swallowing, as he stared through his hands at the scuffed wooden floor. “Aw, Spotty.” 

The affection was clear in Racer’s voice as he continued to rub Spot’s back, quietly murmuring all of the things Spot already knew; that this was a good thing, this meant that attitudes in Manhattan were changing, that people really _were_ mostly good, and generous. How lucky they were that such a good family wanted Jojo; how much he deserved that comfort, that security. Spot even managed to smile a little when Race mentioned that there were hardly any little feet on the street without shoes, anymore, and Spot swallowed hard when Racer went on to point out how differently the orphans were treated, now, compared to when he and Finch had been stuck there. There was a long, heavy beat of silence before Spot pursed his lips and nodded.

“You’re right, I know you’re right, Racer,” He sighed the words. Race leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, which made one corner of his mouth quirk up, just slightly. “It’s just hard. Ya get attached to these little shits, ya know?” It was an understatement, and they both knew it. Racer chuckled softly, reaching into Spot’s hands, which were tangled together, and beginning to unravel them as he spoke.

“I know. But this just means you’re doing a good job, Sean.” Spot took a deep breath as he allowed Racer to pull his hand away, wrapping it around his shoulders so he could curl into Spot’s side where they sat. Spot squeezed him close, turning his head to drop a kiss into his hair. “Orphans are supposed to get adopted. And you did your due diligence looking into the family, they’re nice people.” Spot grunted in response. Racer nuzzled into the side of his neck and Spot hummed appreciatively; he could feel Racer’s smile against his skin. “They are, and you know it. You’ve done good, love.” Spot rested his chin on Race’s head, swallowing as he tightened his grip on his shoulder. He wasn’t sure his voice would carry above a whisper, the hushed words ghosting through Racer’s curls.

“Thanks, Racer.” He was quiet another moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “You’re right, they are nice people. And Jojo deserves a home… a real home.”

“Ugh, _Spot_ ,” Race scoffed, ducking out from underneath him and grabbing Spot’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Look–look at me, Sean. Yes, he deserves a home, they all do. But you _need_ to understand that this?” He gestured with his free hand. “This _is_ a real home.” 

The simplicity of the statement hit Spot like a ton of bricks. He inhaled sharply through his nose, looking down as he thought that through. Maybe Racer was right. That warmth that he knew was waiting for Jojo in his new home? He'd felt that here, too, the same way Spot had all day, every time he watched the boys making decorations or throwing snowballs, shoveling food in their mouths and stumbling sleepily up the stairs to their beds. That same warmth Spot felt in his chest every time he looked around; every time he looked into Racer’s clear blue eyes. 

Race softened as he looked at Spot, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone as he moved his hand to cup his jaw. “You’ve _made_ it a home.” 

“Thank you.” Spot managed in a whisper, resting a hand on top of Race’s where he still held his face.

“Of course, love,” Race answered easily, using his grip to pull Spot forward for a sweet kiss. “I think I know something that will cheer you up.”

“Do you?” Race nodded, his grin quick and mischievous as he pulled out of Spot’s grasp. Spot watched in amusement as Race dropped to the floor and reached underneath the bed. “Racer, what the hell are you doing?”

“Hang on–ow! Ugh,” Race sat up on his knees, grumbling as he rubbed the top of his head; Spot bit his lip to hold back laughter. His eyebrows rose when Race moved to sit back on the bed, clutching what looked to be a wooden rectangle to his chest.

“What is that?”

Racer rolled his eyes indulgently. “A gift, of course. What else?”

“For me?”

“Oh, my God,” Race huffed, nudging Spot with his shoulder. “Yes, for you.” 

Spot widened his eyes, clutching at his chest. “But, Racer, I didn’t get you anything–”

“Horse shit,” Race laughed, and Spot laughed too, in spite of himself. “You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, Conlon.”

“Is that right?”

Race nodded, entirely confident. “That’s right. You just know all the good hiding places, whereas _I_ had to settle for hiding _this_ under your bed.” He heaved a dramatic sigh and then, fairly wiggling where he sat, thrust the present into Spot’s hands. “Happy holidays, Sean.”

Spot let his eyes linger on Race’s face for half a moment longer before he turned his attention to the gift in his lap. He ran his hands over the back of it, feeling the smooth, sanded wood. He hadn’t received many gifts in his life; certainly none before the age of ten, and as he looked back he wasn’t entirely sure whether the cot and blanket Kloppman had given him counted as _gifts_. But this… this was different, and he wanted to savor the moment. Finally, Racer let out a quiet whine of impatience and Spot smirked. He turned the gift over and his breath caught in his throat.

“Oh, Racer…” He said softly, genuine awe touching his voice. 

Sitting in his lap was, quite possibly, the most gorgeous painting he’d ever laid eyes on–to be fair, he hadn’t seen very many works of art in his life, but Racer had given him the full tour of the castle earlier that summer, so he’d seen enough, in his opinion. But this painting wasn’t like the stuffy portraits of the library or the endlessly green landscapes that lined the halls. This painting was unique, a style of art Spot had never seen before; realistic but whimsical, almost as though it depicted a dreamscape. But Spot knew, as well as Racer did, that this was a real place. 

Yes, this was a place Spot recognized immediately: the hot springs from up north, stunningly rendered in oil paints on canvas, the vibrant sunset hues blending seamlessly in the background. The pool looked just as he remembered, the surface smooth as glass. The smile that tugged at his lips was as warm as the springs themselves, and he was, again, lost for words. As usual, Racer had enough words for them both.

"It's the hot springs," He explained needlessly, pressing himself against Spot’s side. "Jack painted it, isn't it beautiful? I just thought you could use some art in here, Spotty, the walls are so bare–" Spot turned his head and cut off Racer's rambling with a kiss, smiling at the surprised little squeak Race let out as he did. He felt Race's hands rest gently on his chest, curling his fingers into his shirt and Spot pulled back to look at him.

"It's perfect," He murmured, eyes roaming over Race’s face, his hopeful eyes, impossibly bright and blue, his excited grin and Spot wondered, not for the first time, how on earth he’d gotten so lucky.

"Really? You like it?"

"Anthony," Spot said, shaking his head incredulously as he reached out to grasp Race's hand. "I love it. You couldn't have done better." He paused, frowning slightly. "I didn't know Jack could paint like this."

“He’s been practicing,” Race said, smiling proudly down at the painting as he traced along the smooth rocks with his fingertips, hovering just above the surface of the canvas. “Imagine what he’ll be able to teach the kids, when we get the school up and running.” Spot hummed in response, watching him with soft eyes, his chest so full of affection and pride he felt like he may burst and he was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to give that feeling back to Racer. He stood and gently set the painting on top of the dresser, propped against the wall, before crouching down to open the deep bottom drawer.

“Spotty?” Spot could hear the confusion in his voice and he grinned, pulling out a thick wooden square, wrapped in parchment and tied with string. He stared down at it, keeping his back to Racer for just another moment before he stood and took his place next to him on the bed. Race shot him a smug smile, bumping his shoulder up against Spot’s. “Thought you didn’t get me anything?”

“Just open it,” Spot sighed, sliding the package onto Racer’s lap. Race fiddled with the string for a moment before glancing at Spot out the corner of his eye and tearing the paper into pieces, pushing them impatiently onto the floor. His gasp of genuine surprise was exactly what Spot was after and he smiled, watching Racer’s eyes light up as he took in the sight of the shiny wooden chessboard.

“Spot, this is _gorgeous_ ,” Race said softly, voice awed as he ran his hands over the smooth wooden surface. “It looks just like the one at Medda’s.”

"It is," Spot said, adding quickly, "Just like it, I mean. She had it made for me–for you, really. Oh, shit, almost forgot,” Spot muttered, jumping up to open a different drawer and pulling out a drawstring bag. He sat back down and opened it, showing its contents to Racer. “The pieces.” Racer grabbed the bag and reached in immediately.

"Oh, wow," He sighed, twirling the intricately carved wooden queen through his fingers. Then he frowned, as though working something out, and nodded in understanding. "That's why you made so many trips to Medda’s."

"Mmhmm," Spot agreed, nodding; hoping Racer didn't notice the way his eyes darted toward his dresser again before he added smugly, “Now we don’t have to take a hike through the woods for you to lose at chess.”

“Ugh, shut up,” Race groaned as he rolled his eyes, grinning in spite of himself. “I’m not _that_ bad.”

“Sure,” Spot said placatingly, rubbing a hand down Race’s spine. “Let’s just say we’re lucky you’re not making any… strategic decisions.” 

“Oh, my God,” Race laughed, dropping his head back. "See, this is why I didn't want to be king." 

Spot watched him for a moment, smirking when Race looked back almost sheepishly; then he made a decision and stood, walking back over to the dresser. He opened one of the top drawers this time, found what he was looking for and tucked it into his sleeve before making his way back to the bed. Race raised his eyebrows, tying up the bag of pieces and setting it, and the chessboard, on the floor before he turned back around, pulling his legs underneath him on the bed.

"What's this?" The curiosity was clear in his voice as he tried to get a look through Spot’s fingers. Spot let him sit in it for another moment before he turned his hand over, revealing a short, shiny dagger with a small dot carved into the handle. Race gasped. "Is this… Spot, is this my dagger?"

Spot nodded, pressing his lips together.

"Wow," Race whispered as he brought the dagger up to his eyes, inspecting it like he always used to in the forge. "I thought it was gone."

"It was," Spot confirmed, eyes lingering on the blade, glinting in the candlelight. "I mean, I thought it was. I caught Morris with it, but then Oscar hit me over the head with his sword, so I thought it was just… lying on the forest floor." He explained, forcing himself to focus on Race’s face, to see the excitement in his eyes, the fond, delicate way he handled the dagger. 

"So how did you get it back?" 

"Albert gave it to me, actually." 

Race's head snapped up, eyes wide. "Really?" Spot nodded.

"I guess Al took it off Morris when he locked him up, that… that night," Spot explained, looking again to the blade. He didn't like to think about the time that he had spent in the dungeons, and he liked talking about it even less. Racer had asked, once, if he wanted to talk about it. Spot remembered a very small, very quiet part of him wanting to answer _yes, please, yes_ before he caught Race's eye; those eyes, so earnest and full of concern for him, and Spot knew he couldn't tell him. He wouldn't, not when he knew how it would crush him. 

The finer details of that night were still hazy, aside from a few horribly vivid memories Spot still couldn't shake–and he wasn't particularly eager to share those with anyone, least of all Race. Not when everything was going so well, when they were so happy and Racer’s eyes sparkled like that–no, he’d keep that buried deep for a while longer. And he’d be fine, really. Even the sleepless nights didn’t feel so long with Racer wrapped up in his arms. 

“You know this is the first one you ever made for me?” Racer’s voice startled him from his thoughts and Spot turned to look at him, smiling softly as he watched him holding the dagger, rubbing his thumb absently over the small dot in the handle. He never would have imagined a simple blade could mean so much to a person, let alone the prince. _Not a prince_ , he reminded himself. 

“I do,” Spot confirmed, reaching out to smooth Race’s curls back from his eyes. The motion seemed to grab Racer’s attention and he carefully set the dagger on the table next to the bed before turning back to him. He grabbed two fistfuls of Spot’s shirt and dragged him in for a kiss that took Spot only _slightly_ off guard; he was mostly used to sudden displays of affection, by now. He indulged Racer for as long as he wanted, slipping a hand up into his hair at the back and smiling at the soft sound it drew from him. Spot pulled back just far enough to see him, giving an affectionate tug of his hair. “Of course I do, Racer.”

“Thank you, love,” Race sighed happily, leaning in to press one more soft, chaste kiss to Spot’s lips before he leaned back against the pillows, pulling Spot down with him. Spot went willingly, shifting so they could slide under the blankets, Racer on the side farthest from the door–Race still teased him about that, occasionally, but Spot didn’t care. He took it in stride, adding it to the list of things about Race that would have been unbearable if he were anyone else. They settled in, Race tucking himself into Spot’s side and hooking a leg over his hip, for good measure. Spot was reaching for the candle on the bedside table when Race suddenly grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“Wait!” 

“What–”

“I almost forgot,” Race said almost breathlessly, and even in the dim candlelight Spot could see that mischievous twinkle in his eyes again. Spot raised an eyebrow, waiting. Race grinned, letting go of Spot’s arm to point up at the headboard. Spot squinted, finally noticing the little bunch of green leaves with small, red berries poking over the top of the bed frame.

“Is that–”

“Mistletoe,” Race confirmed, nodding as he wriggled closer. 

“Of _course_ you put mistletoe in our bed,” Spot chuckled, shaking his head. Race raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, _our_ bed, is it?”

“Shh,” Spot hushed him, leaning in to lightly kiss Racer’s forehead, then both eyebrows, then the tip of his nose. Race giggled softly, tipping his chin up. Spot ducked down, brushing his lips along his cheekbones, his jaw, his chin until Race couldn’t take it anymore. He took Spot’s face in his hands and kissed him firmly. Spot melted into him, into that warm comfort that only Race could offer. His heart was thudding in his chest when he pulled back just far enough to whisper, “Happy holidays, Racer.” 

Race smiled, sliding his arms around Spot’s neck and pulling him closer for _just one more_ soft kiss.

“Happy holidays, Spotty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I ended both of my holiday fics with mistletoe kisses and no, I'm not sorry <3 thanks for reading and checking in on these soft medieval boys


End file.
